


Sorry for the Blood on my Hands

by Demia



Series: Femslash Project 1 - Hauntings [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Character Death, Gen, Killer!Jane, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-27 00:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8381356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demia/pseuds/Demia
Summary: When Jane asks to be let inside, the only thing you can do is open the door for her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unbeta'd, possibly full of mistakes, I checked at best I could.

#### Sorry for the Blood on my Hands

##### Hauntings part One

Callie, could you open the door?

why?

It's freezing out here.

You get up from the couch, turn off the telly, put the kettle on.  
Your phone pings again. Undoubtedly it's Jane, telling you to get on with it.  
You sigh, deeply, pulling at your hair with both hands, and you open the door for her because you've got no other choice. 

“Goddamn,” she spits out, breathing open-mouthed on her hands. Her fingertips are getting blue, under the splatters of red. “It shouldn't get so cold. It's barely fall!”

“I've put the kettle on,” you tell her, taking her dirty coat. For a moment, you consider feeding it to the fireplace. Blood doesn't wash away properly, not when it's caked on wool.

You let it slip from your hand, catch it again a moment before it crumples to the ground. You know it doesn't smell of iron and copper. The stains are dry, now, the blood is not flowing and bubbling hot and alive in someone's veins. 

“You're an angel, Callie. Thank god I've got you,” Jane says, placing a kiss on your cheek. She grips your upper arm, her fingers going all the way around your limb.  
You want to shake her off, scream at her not to ever touch you when she's covered in blood, but you don't.

Jane is as shocked as you are. She's just better at hiding it. 

“I'll make the tea while you shower,” you whisper, your throat closed and your stomach twisting into knots. “You're cold as death.”

Jane nods, “Yeah. Right. A shower sounds divine.” She kisses you again, on the same cheek, and you wonder if she has left lipstick marks on your skin. You hope not. 

You put the coat on the rack, tidy and perfect. You will do something about the blood in the morning, no reason to lose your mind now. You have a whistling kettle and a few cuppas of tea to make. The blood can wait a few hours. 

Jane comes back wrapped in your fluffy, cherry red bathrobe. Her hair is a mess of knots and dripping all over your floor. 

“I do have a hair-dryer, you know?” you say, letting the tea brew for a while more. Jane likes it strong, and you would take tea in any way. “You will get sick.”

“It's okay, Callie. I toweled it.”

“You're dripping,” you hear yourself say, your voice doesn't even sound like your own, your hands shake as you take the leaves out of the water. The bowls are full and steaming, the aroma is nice as ever, and you drop three spoonfuls of sugar in your cup. 

Milk, too, as soon as you remember it. A few drops fall on the counter and you hiss through your teeth. 

“Is everything okay?” Jane asks, coming up beside you and wrapping her arms around your waist. She engulfs you, leaning her chin on top of your head. 

“Peachy,” you answer, taking your cup and sipping slowly. “Sugar or milk?”  
You already know she takes her tea without either of those, you feel compelled to ask any way.

“Callie–”

“Everything is fine, love. I'm just tired.” You force yourself to lean into Jane's embrace, the warm dampness of her skin, the fluffiness of the bathrobe, the sweetness of your soap. It suits her. 

Certainly, it suits her much better than blood and scars and crime. 

“Alright. Finish your tea and go to sleep. We can talk in the morning,” Jane says, taking her cup from the counter and gulping the black liquid inside in one, long sip. 

You let her kiss you temple and you keep your lips glued to the rim of the bowl. 

“Are you sure there is nothing wrong?” she asks again.

“Just need a long night's sleep, I wager. I'll be better in the morning, love. Don't you worry none about me.” Your voice cracks. You hear it, Jane hears it. It's a wet sound, broken and pitiful, right there in the middle of your reassurances. 

“Off you go,” Jane whispers, taking the cup from your hands and giving you the smallest push. “To bed with you.”  
And you go, pliant under her warm hands. 

“Are you coming too?”  
You find yourself with bathed breath. You wait and wait and wait for her voice to come to you, for an answer to arrive, and you've got no idea what you want to hear her say. 

On one hand, having her at your side, warm and soft and alive and unharmed–  
It sounds like magic. It sounds like the medicine you need to achieve a proper night's sleep. 

On the other…

“I might be a while,” Jane says, and you flinch hard under you skin. Your eyes are glued to the door to your bedroom, and Jane is at your back. You hope she isn't looking at you. “I haven't eaten, yet.” 

“Help yourself to the fridge, darling. There's ham and cheese in there, if you care for a sandwich. And figs jam, I think. Made it myself.”

“Go to sleep, Callie. I can manage a meal, I assure you.”  
You nod to the wall because you can't stomach looking at her face. Not now. Not yet and not any more for tonight. 

~*~

Calliope closes the door to her bedroom behind herself and you can finally breathe out. 

I've gone and done it you type with shaking hands.  
Your stomach rumbles in restless hunger, and still your throat is closed tight. You're nauseous and terrified and your skin is prickling, your eyes burning with tears.  
She is disgusted with me and by me and I don't know if I can fix this. Is it even fixable?

shes cool, janey. Wnhat are you even worryin bout?  
didnt you gals worked it all oht or somethin?  
*work *out

You kind of want to bash your head against the fridge.  
And that makes your body remember how hungry you are. 

We talked about it. Don't know about working it out, though. It is a hard thing to work out, isn't it?

only if you let it be babe ;(   
sad wonk bcauz Im worried bug alsi righf  
*^typos

You're not drunk, are you?  
And here your stomach goes, knotting itself up like it's the best hobby in the entire world.

You worry so much you will have an ulcer or ten, sooner or later. 

nah just bisy  
*busy  
mommy dearest s ancitng up again!!!  
*actin  
I swear to god iwill kill her mtself if she ddoesnf stop doing this!!! Na ddirky is glued to his phone he Is barley helping at all.  
*^fuckin bunch a typos.  
lissen, janey, I love ya an all, qnd I wanna be here to help ya with your callie probz, but I realley gtg imma call you in the mornin.

Be safe. And hit me up if you need anything at all. Love you too.

You do bang your head against the fridge, but it's more out of worried frustration than terrified anguish.  
Rosalyn Lalonde is so not your favorite person on the round Earth, but Roxy loves her and it would be terribly inappropriate and rude if you were to speak ill of her. 

*

After a sandwich you swallowed by sheer willpower alone, you decide that Calliope must be asleep, and you slither, quiet but quickly, into the bedroom and under the covers. 

You're still wearing the bathrobe and nothing else, but it's better than clothes stiff with dried blood and also better than sleeping in the nude. This is not your bed, after all, and you're not sure how much Callie would appreciate being flashed first thing in the morning. 

Oh, the morning.  
You check your phone. The battery is running low, and the clock says it's past three in the morning, and you don't care for sleep. 

Which, is actually not the same as not being tired because god are you tired. 

Your knuckles hurt and your ears are still ringing with the consequences of too many gunshots.  
Your skin is clammy, now that the blessing of the shower has left you, and you consider stealing some more hot water from Calliope because you need to feel clean. 

Water has dripped on your neck and down your back, and you're damp and cold and you just want to cry and feel better and scream and curse whatever life choices have brought you here. 

Then again, Calliope's sleeping face is the most beautiful, most tender thing in the world, and you would never want to deprive yourself of its sight. 

You caress her short hair, white like snow and coarse, slim and fragile. She's not in good shape, tonight even less than usual, and even in sleep her eyes have big, black circles around them. Her lips are all chipped, pale in that sickly way that makes them all hard and rough, and she is still beautiful, of course, but she is not well. 

And you worry, because that's what you do.  
You kill and you worry all in the same breath.  
You murder and you fuss.  
You spill blood and self care tips like you've got a bag full of both planked loyally and unfailingly on your side at all times. 

Caliborn hadn't begged for mercy, no.  
He looked so alike Calliope that you've had a bit of a trouble killing him. 

He didn't beg for your mercy or for his life or for forgiveness. He had stared right into your eyes, smug and challenging to his last breath.  
And he was still a child, barely eighteen, playing the big game like a pro, but no one has ever explained him the rules. 

No one fucks with Her Radiance, and it doesn't matter if he's your dear Calliope's brother. Her Radiance wants him gone and she also wants you to know–

Don't fail me. Prove me your loyalty, Jane, dear. I have the utmost trust in you, girl. Don't make me regret it.

Her Radiance likes a job well done, clean it up nicely, Jane, you have to leave no proof and no trace, Jane… 

But you've never wanted to kill in your life. 

Not Caliborn, even if he kind of deserved it, being the shit-head he was.  
Not anyone else either. They might have deserved it, maybe, but do you deserve the blood staining your hands? 

~*~

You wake up and you're incredibly well-rested. Jane is still snoring softly next to you, and as you get up, you take care of not disturbing her at all. For one thing, you know she needs her sleep.  
For anther, you don't care for your little talk, just yet. 

You put the kettle on, because waking up without a cuppa is blasphemy, and honestly just mean, and you ponder on what to make for breakfast.  
Is Jane even waking up in time to eat it? Or would brunch be more appropriate? 

You reckon she should awaken sooner than three in the afternoon, but maybe not before ten in the morning. 

The clock on your wall says it's half past seven, and you have no idea what you're doing awake at such an unholy hour of the day, but here you are, and you're feeling pretty hungry, all considered. 

Sausages it is, then. And buttered toast. And maybe you will drink all the water in the kettle and put it on again as soon as Jane opens her eyes.  
There will be no talk without tea. Not in your house. 

You eye the eggs in the fridge, your tongue is poking out from your lips and you chew on it. Fuck eggs, you don't even like them very much. Not unless they're covered and dripping with mustard. No mustard in the house, though. 

The sausages frizzle happily in the pan, the smell of burnt grease wafts in your nose, and you can savor, already, the most restless breakfast you will ever have. 

As you turn the stove to a low flame, ready to let your food get cooked to perfection as any self-loving person would, the doorbell rings. 

Useless to say, you jump out of your skin.  
Take a step towards the door, and you wonder who you will find on the other side.  
Is it Her Radiance herself, come to congratulate Jane on a job well done?  
Is she coming to take your life too, because no one would ever believe Caliborn is the mind behind the entire organization? 

To be quite honest, he isn't–  
Wasn't. 

You turn the knob and you wonder if it will be Makara, come to end you and Jane for daring to kill his pupil, for not begging hard enough as to spare his life in your name. 

You pull the door open and you're quite ready to die. 

“Callie,” Roxy stage-whispers, coming to hug you as tight as she can. “Good morning.”

“Morning, love. What are you doing here? Has something happened?”

“Nope. Calm your non-existent tits, Callie,” Roxy says, but she is not her usual, snarky and chipper self. “Janey said she was here, and we all know she needs company after a job.”

“Indeed,” you mutter, looking Roxy up and down. She looks like someone who hasn't slept in a week, and isn't that just the kind of things a friend should worry about? “Would you like to come inside for a cuppa? There's sausages on the stove.”

“Nah, wanna go home, get washed up.”

“You look like you could use the food, Roxy,” you tell her, taking her hand in yours and pulling gently at her arm.  
She huffs in your direction, giving you the stink-eye, not unlike a pissed off cat.

“I could use a bunch a things.”

“I've got food, and a shower, and a couch. I have it on good word that it's the perfect place to sleep.”

“Sounds like somethin I would say, if you ask me,” Roxy jokes, and she lets you pull her all the way inside the house, closing the door at her back.

“Rough night?” you ask her, sitting her down at the kitchen table and placing a mug of tea in front of her. It's murky with milk, and full of honey. 

“You could say that, girl. Mom was being a right bitch, let me tell ya.” She drinks without fuss, and sighs as the warmth seeps into her bones, wrapping her hands tight around the cup. 

You feel more and more like the owner of a refuge. Taking in strays and giving them hot beverages and free food and a place to sleep. 

Your latest refugee raises her eyes and stares right into yours, her mouth a pucker full of curiosity. 

“Janey is not proud of what she does,” she says, and again she buries her face in her cup, hides form you at best she can. 

You chew your lower lip, blood blooms on your tongue, coppery and disgusting. You wash it away with a sip of your tea. The sausages are done just right, the kind of crispy and burned you love for breakfast, and you put them on a plate.  
“Help yourself, love,” you tell Roxy, offering her cutlery and toast. 

“Bribing me with food, now?” she teases, taking a sausage and placing in on her plate, in between two slices of bread. “You got tomatoes?”

“In this season?”

“What of it?” Roxy asks, cocking her eyebrow at you. 

“Tomatoes are summer vegetables. I have chutney, if you'd like.”

“Eh, I'll take it,” Roxy agrees. She starts spreading chutney on her toast as soon as you give it to her, and she bites into the food with a passion that almost scares you. 

Rosalyn must not feed her enough.  
Good woman, Rosalyn, and a better writer, but definitely not a good mother. 

“So… about Janey–”

“I already know,” you interrupt her, clenching a fist around the mug. “Doesn't have much of a choice, does she?”

“Right-o. Well then, your thoughts?”

“My thoughts?” you echo her, staring at her narrowed eyes, her busy hands gripping the cutlery like a last line of defense. “About Jane's job?”

“What else, Cal? Don't play dumb!”

“She doesn't have a choice, I have already said so!” you hiss through your teeth, placing the cup down on the table, softly and shaking. “It's not my place to pass judgment, is it? I am no jury, no executioner. I am just her friend.”

“We all judge,” Roxy tells you, and she stands up, shushes you with a raised hand as you try to retort, and she flashes you a brilliant smile, “I'mma take you up on that shower you promised me, now.”

~*~

“Janey,” Roxy calls you, thumping her fist on the closed door.  
You don't want to get up, you don't want to be awake yet, and you sure as hell don't want to start the day.  
Starting the day, getting up, being awake all mean that you will have to talk to Calliope and there is nothing you want to do less. “Janey, c'mon, get your ass out of bed. It's fuck o'clock already!”

“Fuck o'clock,” you mutter, half to her and half to yourself.  
It does feel like fuck o'clock, undoubtedly.  
But it also feels like something you have to do. Calliope deserves better than to be kept in the dark, and you don't want her to see the body of her brother on the morning news. 

You want to be the one to tell her. You think you kind of deserve to be the one, not as a prize but as punishment for your actions.

“Get up or I'll tickle you to death!” Roxy threatens, and you know she is serious as hell. She is always serious when it comes to tickles, and you're definitely not in the mood. 

“I'm up,” you scream at her, sitting up and hugging the bathrobe to your chest. You tie it close and leave the warmth of the covers. They never feel as good, once Callie leaves, anyway. “You're a pain in the ass, Roxy,” you tell her, opening the door and examining her from a short distance. 

“Pssh.” She waves a hand in your direction and then she looks at you too, with the same intensity you can feel in your own eyes. “How you doing, girl?”

“Clean and rested, unlike you.”

“I'll let you know I just took the longest goddamn shower ever, I'm the clean queen,” Roxy jokes, pursing her lips at you and blowing you a raspberry. 

“Have you eaten?” you ask her, because someone has to care for her health, and surely Rosalyn Lalonde won't.  
And Dirk… Well, he's an affectionate older brother and all, but he barely remembers to keep himself feed and rested, let alone caring for someone else.

“Callie made me sausages and tomatoes chupney. I think? Chupa? Chupacabra?”

“It's chutney, love. It's an Indian recipe,” Calliope says, showing you her face.  
You thought–  
After yesterday night, you thought she would never let you see her again, but you guess you were wrong.

“It's delicious,” Roxy compliments, “You should have some, Janey, it really wakes your taste-buds up. Give 'em a good kick.”

“Sure,” you say, and your mind is focused on Calliope and Calliope only.  
She isn't as tired as yesterday, and for a second – but only a second, you swear – you let yourself hope that it was really just tiredness. 

“Yeah, now, since the bed's empty, I'm going to take my nap. Wake me up if something's on fire or if you need a rebuff or whatevs!” Roxy says, pushing you away from the doorway and letting the door bang closed. You hear her mumble on the other side of the wood, and you consider knocking and asking if she's all right, but you don't. 

You have a very pressing talk to get to. 

“Let's get some tea in you, love,” Calliope breathes out, turning her back on you and retreating to the kitchen.  
She looks a lot less scared than yesterday, at least there's that. 

*

The tea is good, sure, but Calliope has a weird, and honestly unhealthy, obsession with it. You don't want to buy into stereotypes, but you're almost sure it's a British thing. Or maybe she takes after her mother?

Anyway, she has this bone-deep need to stuff you full of leaves water every time you step into her house, and you're getting kind of tired of it.

“Drink up, it'll get cold,” she tells you, a hint of reprimand in her voice. 

Calliope is the best surrogate mother you could ask for, truly, and it's a part of her you adore and one of the reasons you love her so much, but… 

The point is, she is not actually your caregiver. She doesn't need to work so hard at babying you.

“I killed your brother,” you say.  
Calliope looks up from her mug, stares into your eyes for a moment. She moves slowly, putting the mug down on the table, her fingers shake but she is making no noise at all.  
She stirs the tea with her spoon, adding some sugar to it. 

“Go on with it,” she spits out. The spoon clatters against the ceramic of the cup, and it rattles your bones. 

“There's not much more to it,” you whisper, and you don't know why you spoke so soon, why you sprung that on her like this, in the middle of her holy tea ritual. 

You hope you haven't spoiled it for her forever. That is something you're sure she would never forgive you. 

“Did he–” she breaks on a sob, a quiet one, unobtrusive. “Did Caliborn have any last words?”

“We'll meet in hell, you fat whore,” you tell her, and for once in your life you wish you could lie to your friends.  
You wish desperately you could say something nicer to her.  
That her brother told you to relate that he loves her or something on those lines.  
Something sentimental, something that could help her move on more smoothly. 

The chuckle that escapes Calliope's lips is a haunting screech full of rage and, at the same time, it's unsettlingly fond. “That sounds like something he would say, indeed.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Doesn't help much, love. I hope it won't come across as too rude, but your apologies mean jack shit to me. They won't give me my brother back, will they?” She is regarding you with a smile, and it _is_ fond, and full of compassion, but it is also… Cold.

Cold is not an adjective you use for Calliope. Ever.  
She is all but cold.  
Warmer person you have yet to find, except for Roxy, maybe, but even Roxy can be cold when she wants to be. Not with her friends, but with those who deserve it, sure. She is still a Lalonde. 

“I– Yes, you're right. I won't apologize any more, then. I do wish I could have let him live, though. Even if he was a bastard.”

“He was my brother. Bastard or not. And I loved him, in my own way,” Calliope says, her smile expires, leaves her chipped lips like a soul leaving the body of a just deceased, and you don't know what to do with yourself, you don't know what to say, you have no idea how to make this better for her, if you even can. 

You're almost tempted to go wake up Roxy from her sleep, but that would only be another victim of yours, and you need no other pain staining your hands. 

Long minutes pass, and you look at her while she looks at the table, stirring and stirring and stirring her tea, fingers clenched tight around the spoon, knuckles pale. 

“He needed to go, I understand,” she says, eventually. “I am not naive, Jane, love. You don't disobey when Her Radiance gives you an order. It was Caliborn or you, and no matter the outcome, I would be pissed anyway. I am not mad at you.”

“You don't deserve this. You should have only good things in life, Callie, you don't–”

“Shush,” she says, shaking her head. Her eyes find yours, and they're full of pain and full of misery and full of sympathy. “I am _not_ mad at you, Jane. You had a job to do and you did it. Life isn't fair.”

* 

you talked to callie?  
shes been askin bout you  
Jaaaaaaaney  
where the fuck have you gone to?  
whateves, answer me when you read this, you piece of shit <3

“Yo, girl!” Feferi screeches, banging on your door. She sounds a bit like a murder of pissed off crows. “Open the fucking door!”

“She obviously wants to be alone for a while, Fef. Leave her be,” Terezi intercedes for you, and you would be a lot more thankful for it if you were under any delusion that it would change Feferi's mind at all.

“I want this door open in two seconds, Crocker,” she orders, and you sigh as you get up from the bed she has so graciously lent to you for the time being.

Again, you would be more thankful if every night spent in it wasn't a roller-coaster of guilt and headaches and inexplicable terror.

“Here,” you say, looking down at Feferi. She is so small, compared to you, and yet so terrifying. “Door's open.”

“Good. Now come down and get some food. I will not have my VP starving herself.” She takes your forearm in one hand, and she can't surround it all with her small hand, but she tries damn hard, and she pulls you downstairs with her. 

At your side, Terezi is shaking her head and giving you sad looks. Or as much as looks as she can give.  
She is being empathetic, in her own way. 

“Sit down,” Feferi orders, taking out a steaming pie from the oven, “Made this myself with my beautiful hands, you better eat it and adore it, or I will be pissed.”

“Yes boss,” you say, raising your eyebrow at her. She copies your expression, completely unimpressed with you, and she places a hand on her waist. 

“Eat, Crocker. You look like a dead man walking, and I won't have any of it no more. This ends here and now.”

“As you wish, boss.”

“Don't be a smart ass,” Terezi chides, draping herself on the couch that functions as a pseudo-wall between the kitchen and the living room. “Fef takes care of all her little creatures, you know that.”

“I'm my own person, thank you very much,” you rebuke, and Terezi flips you the finger. Well, she flips the wall the finger, but you have the nagging suspicion it was directed at you. 

“You're one of mine, Crocker. I take care of my own, and especially I take care of my own that don't care none about their own health. Now eat this fucking pie before I fill your head with lead.”

“Graceful. Like a proper lady,” Terezi comments. She must have such a boring life, to find entertainment in this.

“Shut the fuck up, Rezi! I'm not feeling graceful. I want Jane back on her feet and if she can't get there she is no use to me no more.” Feferi has the eyes of a killer on her, and you're not scared, no, because death has not scared you for years, but sure as hell you're respecting her a whole lot more than usual. 

She is one girl that knows how to get what she wants, and since you live to please her, you eat the damn pie. 

It is the best fucking pie you've ever tasted.

~*~

You ring the doorbell with shaking fingers.  
You're feeling sicker than usual, like your stomach and intestines are planning a _coup d'etat_ against the primness of your dress, and you want everything and anything more than puking all over yourself.

That's no way to meet Her Radiance.

The hinges creak as the door opens, and you feel your heart beating in your throat, restless and panicked like a caged bird.

“Oi,” a ludicrously tall girl says, flipping her, also ludicrously, long hair behind a shoulder, “Are you with the police?”

“Uh… No?” you whisper. She cocks an eyebrow at you, her eyes narrowing just a little bit. “I'm– I–”

“Use your words, and be quick 'cause I don't have all day.”

“I was told Jane Crocker is staying here? I need to speak with her,” you spit out, forcing the words to pour from your mouth even if every single one of them wants to stick in your throat. 

“You do,” the woman says, and she doesn't sound very much impressed with your performance. “Well, little bird, I'm afraid lady Crocker is not in the house, at the moment. Come back later and maybe you'll be luckier.” She winks at you and tries to close the door in your face. 

You slap a hand against the wood, hurting your palm and your eardrums both, and you stare up at her.  
Radiance or no Radiance, that's no way to speak to a visitor, you reckon. 

“I need to speak to Jane. Now.”

“Listen, sweetheart, Jane is unavailable and will not receive anyone at the moment. Come. Back. Later.”

“Tell her Callie is here and needs to speak with her. Let's see if she will be available then,” you say, faking all the boldness and the confidence you don't have. 

“She doesn't want to talk to you. Specifically, she said, keep that bitch Callie out of the apartment, Vriska. I don't want to see her ugly face,” the woman hisses at you, and you know it's not true, it's just pure malice, and you wonder if Jane actually isn't in there or if this too tall stranger is simply trying to piss you off. “She begged me to keep you out. Now, do us all a favor and leave.”

“No.”

“Well, aren't you a brave one, Callie. Let me make this even more clear. She doesn't want to see you and if you don't leave I will call the Radiance. She hates when people mess with her things.”

“Oh, so you're not Her,” you say, flashing her a wide smile that you're sure will give her shivers down her back, and you put all your strength into pushing her out of the way. 

The apartment is very nice, very cozy, all in pastel colors. A place you yourself wouldn't mind to live in, and you're so picky when it comes to living arrangements. 

“Jane Crocker!” you scream, standing just a few steps into what looks like a living room. “Jane Crocker, you fucking arsehole, get here right now!”

“Whoa, what's with all the noise? Vriska, have you brought your drunkards friends over again?” a voice asks, but it's not Jane's voice so you don't care. 

“Vriska!”

“It's not me, Fef! She just pushed her way inside!” the too tall woman screams back, and you have to yell louder, calling out Jane's name again. 

Suddenly, there's a gun at your temple, and a girl more or less your height is handling it. Steady, her hand doesn't shake, her finger caresses the trigger.

“I would stop screaming. Jane is not having visitors,” the girl tells you. Her eyes have a pinkish tint to them, under the colorful lights. 

“I need to see her.”

“I don't give a fuck. Who even are you?”

“Calliope. Caliborn's sister.” You stare at the girl, at the gun in her hand, and you're not afraid of moving under it, you're not scared of death. You've been told you would die young since forever. You don't care. 

You need to speak with Jane. She hasn't been returning your calls, or answering your texts, and you need to fix this situation once and for all. 

“Yeah, I can see the resemblance. Your twin, was he?” she has a nice accent, Mediterranean you think, her consonants roll on her tongue and her vowels are soft and round, just like her figure.  
She must be Her Radiance, and you're a lot less scared, standing in front of her, than you thought you would be.

“Yes he was. And I know Jane has killed him. Under your order. And I don't care. I just need to speak with her. Please.”

“Boss.”  
You sigh. 

_Finally_.

“Let her go,” Jane says. She stomps down the stairs, one step at a time, heavy and uncoordinated. 

“I don't like people trespassing and screaming in my home,” Her Radiance says, giving you a nasty look. She takes her gun off your head, though, and she hides it in a pocket of her frilly dress. “I will cut you some slack. But just this time.”

“Yes boss, won't happen again,” Jane says, and she reaches you, eventually. She is slow on her feet, her arms abandoned on her sides, she looks like a rag-doll, used and thrown away.  
“What are you doing here, Callie? Making a scene and all? It doesn't suit you,” she tries to joke, but it falls flatter than flat. 

It's almost pathetic, and you pull her in a tight hug.  
“You arsehole,” you hiss in her shoulder, her skin clammy with cold sweat and smelling like sickness and sleep deprivation. She feels like you do in your worst days, and that is more terrifying than not hearing from her in months. “I fucking missed you.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did! You're coming back home. Right now. This place is killing you,” you pull her away, at an arm's length's distance, and you take her in. She looks like death warmed over and hit by a pair of trucks. 

She is not eating well and not sleeping well and you can't take it. You can't take not having her under your eyes, somewhere where you can take care of her whenever you feel it's necessary. She has to come back home. 

“I… Home?” she asks, tilting her head down to look at you a bit better. “You want me to come home?”

“I am not mad at you, Jane! How many times do I have to tell you? I am not mad, love, I understand that you do what you have to and I am not mad! Come home.”

“I– Yes!” She nods and hugs you again, peppering your temples and forehead with loud kisses. “Yes, yes, I'm so sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“It's fine, love. Just let's go home.” You take her hand and pull her outside, ignoring the tall woman – Vriska, isn't it? – and Her Radiance and even the fact that Jane is wearing only a pajama. 

Nothing matters more than getting her home, the rest will come later, if at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first part of a very big project I have. The next part will be up as soon as I've written it.  
> If you want to know anything about the project or even just talk to me or whatever, visit my [Tumblr](http://academia-dragonsbane.tumblr.com/)


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